


Three Little Birds Sat On My Window

by withthekeyisking



Series: Batfam Week 2020 [4]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: (well "dead" bruce wayne), Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Barbara Gordon is Batgirl, Batfam Week, Batfam Week 2020, Batkids Age Reversal, Conditioning, Court of Owls, Damian Wayne is Batman, Dead Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Duke Thomas is Signal, Gen, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Hurt Dick Grayson, Jason Todd is Shrike, Night of the Owls, Protective Damian Wayne, Tim Drake is NOT called Red Hood but he's kinda red hood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22717318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Damian is twenty-four years old, his father is dead, he's wearing a cowl he stopped wanting a long time ago, and there's currently a ten-year-old brandishing a knife at him.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Series: Batfam Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640407
Comments: 69
Kudos: 949
Collections: Tales from the Cave





	Three Little Birds Sat On My Window

**Author's Note:**

> _"Three little birds sat on my window / and they told me I don't need to worry."_  
>   
>  Day 4: Robins | De-Aging | **Reverse Batfam AU**

It's the barest flicker at the edge of his awareness that tells Damian he's not alone in the room.

He doesn't react to the feeling, keeping his posture relaxed, his attention on the screen of data he'd been examining, giving no sign that he's aware of the other presence. One of his hands drifts casually towards his utility belt, flicking a batarang into his palm under the cover of his cape.

Whoever the individual is, they don't attack right away. The large room remains practically dead silent around him, and Damian is begrudgingly impressed by the person, able to keep themselves concealed and quiet in the face of an enemy. Patience, discipline, skill. Damian just wishes they'd _strike_ already so that they could get this over with.

 _"Shrike to the big man,"_ Jason's voice comes through his comm.

Damian raises his hand to his ear, fingers sliding against the still unfamiliar blockage of the cowl for a moment before he hits his own comm unit, activating it. "Batman here."

It's been seven weeks, and Damian's still not used to calling himself that. He's not sure he'll _ever_ get used to calling himself that.

The person in the room with him shifts, ever-so-slightly, and allows Damian to pinpoint his location. He contains a curse; whoever they are, they've managed to get quite close to him with barely any detection.

 _"I found where they're keeping the iced Talons,"_ Jason tells him. _"Freaking fucking room, too."_

In his mind, Damian can hear his father's deep voice chastise, _Language._ His throat clogs against the word, and he swallows decidedly past it.

"How many are left?" Damian asks, hand tightening around the batarang. The individual is approaching from his seven o'clock, slow and careful. Why haven't they attacked yet?

 _"Fifteen ice boxes, only two Talons still in theirs,"_ Jason tells him. _"Which matches up the numbers that we took out last night."_ A thoughtful pause. _"Well, except for—"_

"Except for one," Damian murmurs, now sure who is creeping up on him. He waits a breath, shifting his stance the slightest amount into something ready to fight, and then he whirls around, kicking out at where he predicts the figure—the _Talon_ —to be.

His aim is spot on, but the undead assassin is already moving with it, flipping back and out of range. Damian immediately follows it up by throwing the batarang in his grip, and he gets his first good look at the Talon when dodging the weapon sends them into a patch of light, revealed to Damian.

And then Damian has to pause because—small.

It's—it's a _child_ standing in front of him, wearing the intricate outfit that proclaims him as a Talon, one of the Court of Owls' elite assassins. The boy's _(really is just a boy, barely into double digits, what is a boy doing dressed as a Talon?)_ features are still soft with youth, but the eyes are far older than they have any right to be, cobalt blue and shining like gemstones.

There's a knife in each the boy's hands now, those detailed weapons all Talons are decked out with, but Damian has to note that the boy hadn't drawn his weapons until Damian had attacked. And still, now, the boy simply stands there, watching for what Damian will do next.

"I've found the last Talon," Damian tells Jason through his comm, and the little assassin in front of him cocks his head, bright blue eyes flicking around the room.

 _"Shit,"_ is his younger brother's response. _"In the control room? I'm on my way—"_

"It's a child," Damian tells him. His voice is perfectly controlled. There's silence over the comm. "He can't be more than ten." Hell, the boy barely comes up past Damian's waist.

Another moment of silence, and then— _"Well,"_ Jason says, _"at least you have experience with child assassins. Having, you know,_ been _one of those. Are you having flashbacks?"_

Jason's tone and words are teasing, but—yes, Damian is feeling a little thrown back in time. Looking at the ten-year-old brandishing a knife at him, he can't help but wonder if he was really this small when he first arrived at the Manor fourteen years ago in much the same fashion.

What did father do, the first time Damian pulled a knife on him? He can't remember. And he's not quite sure _how_ applicable his own situation is to this, considering he'd been a biological child and not a brainwashed one.

He can hear Timothy in his head— _You sure about the 'not brainwashed' part? Ra's certainly did a number on you._

"Put down your weapons," Damian orders, raising his voice to Batman's patented growl, not quieted like when he was talking to Jason through the comm.

The child just blinks at him, heavy and owlish and thus very fitting for the location. Damian purses his lips.

"Your masters and the other Talons are gone," Damian tells him, perhaps a little harshly. "There is no point in—resisting." He stops himself at the last second from saying _fighting,_ because the boy _isn't_ fighting, making no attempts to attack.

"You're Batman," the boy says eventually. His voice is rough and quiet, likely from disuse—the Court doesn't seem the type to care for what their assassins have to say. Just complete obedience; original thought is not needed to carry out their role.

Damian can...empathize.

"I am."

The boy's tongue darts out to lick his lips, a hesitant gesture, eyes darting around like checking for anyone else. When he has apparently decided that the coast is clear, he says, "But not _the_ Batman." Damian's eyes widen behind the cowl. "The _original_ Batman."

Overall, Damian's done an excellent job of convincing the general populous and the villains that he is his father, that the Batman they've fought for _years_ is still the one they're fighting. He's grown to be as tall as his father, just as broad, and he trained to be a hero with his father longer than he trained to be an assassin with the League of Shadows, so their fighting styles are almost identical that no one really notices the slight differences.

Even Jason has commented that if he didn't know better, he'd believe the charade. Timothy was...less generous, but Timothy has a tendency to not be generous about anything these days. Especially in regards to father's legacy.

And yet this boy takes one look at him and knows. How?

"Who are you?" Damian asks roughly.

"Are you going to kill me?" the boy asks immediately. He doesn't seem concerned about the question, like he's asking about the weather.

Damian has been many things over the years, many of them not good, but he doesn't consider himself a child killer. Then again, is the boy even truly a _child_ anymore? He's a Talon for the Court of Owls. It might even be a mercy to put him down. It will certainly save them all trouble in the long run, to not have such a boy running around. Many would approve of such an action.

But Bruce Wayne would not. _Batman_ would not. And thus, Damian cannot.

"No," he tells the boy honestly. "No, you will not be dying today, at least not by my hand. Who are you? How do you know I'm..." _Not him, not truly Batman, an imposter._

The sound of quick footsteps hits his ears then, and the boy tenses, eyes snapping over to the long hallway, grip adjusting on his blades into something more fight-ready.

But it isn't an enemy that appears, simply Damian's partner Shrike. Jason takes in the scene before him quickly—the tiny child decked out in weapons, Damian's purposefully nonthreatening stance—and raises his eyebrows, before adjusting his own positioning to be less confrontational as well. The boy's tense now that there's two of them instead of one, but when Jason goes to stand by Damian instead of blocking the exit, he relaxes just a little.

"Hiya, squirt," Jason greets pleasantly, a smile turning his lips. "Those are some wicked knives you've got. Bat's rules say we can't carry shit like that, but it's badass."

Damian is grateful for Jason taking over this interaction; his brother has always been far better with children than Damian ever has, even when he _was_ a child.

The boy glances down at the blades in his hands as if confused, and then back up. He lowers the weapons to his sides, and though Damian had been pretty sure the child wouldn't attack, it's still nice to no longer have a blade pointed at him.

"Wait a sec," Jason mutters, squinting at the boy. "Wait a second, you're—" He laughs, incredulous and surprised. "You're Dick Grayson! Man, we looked _everywhere_ for you!"

Something shines in the boy's eyes and he puts the blades into their sheathes, talking a few quick steps towards the pair of them. His blue eyes are locked on Jason, something like hope and _longing_ in his gaze.

"You did?" he asks, sounding so vulnerable and _young._

It's only then that the name clicks for Damian—two years ago, the deaths at the circus. Father had taken Jason to go see the performances, and they'd both witnessed the deaths of two acrobats. Their son Richard had been taken to an orphanage, but Batman caught him sneaking out that very night and brought him back to where he was supposed to be.

Father had been planning on going back for the boy the next day. But by the time morning hit, the boy had been gone. Father and Jason had taken it on as a personal mission to find the missing child, to no success.

"Yeah!" Jason says emphatically. He's smiling so brightly and widely that Damian thinks it must hurt his face. "Batman meant it when he said he wanted to help you—we caught Tony Zucco, brought him to justice. But we could never find you."

The boy— _Richard_ —stares at Jason with wide eyes. "You—got him? He's in prison?" Jason nods. Something that might be a smile flickers quickly across Richard's face before vanishing. His eyes flick over to Damian, and then back to the younger of the pair. When he speaks, his voice is no more than a whisper. "Is Batman dead?"

Jason's smile dims. He, too, glances briefly at Damian, something apologetic in his eyes. "Yeah," Jason says softly. "But Batman can never die, you know? The new Batman is doing a pretty great job."

Damian most certainly does _not_ feel something warm in his chest at that statement. He doesn't need anyone's approval to wear his father's cowl; it's his right, by birth. Just as leading the League of Shadows is, should he choose to take it.

_(It's been a long time since Damian wanted either of his legacies.)_

"I'm supposed to kill you," Richard says bluntly, quick like an admission.

Jason blinks, startled. "Ah," he says awkwardly. "Well that's—okay. You're not gonna try, are you?"

Damian snorts, an undignified sound he'll never admit to having made, let alone in costume. Jason shoots him a look. Richard shakes his head mutely.

"Batman said you're not gonna kill me," the boy says, and Jason's eyebrows go up.

"Well, yeah," he says a little stiffly, and Damian wonders if he's remembering the same thing Damian is, all the other Talons that they and the rest of their team took down permanently. Because they—didn't count. They were undead assassins, no real independent thought, just creatures like parademons, no problem killing them. But this boy in front of them—he's proof that there's more there. That maybe they shouldn't have acted so quickly to assume.

Or maybe the boy truly is just a boy, not yet put through the process to make him a full Talon, and it _is_ different.

"Then what happens now?" Richard asks, sounding small and vulnerable again. He wraps his arms around himself, like—like a child, and _hell_ he really is just a boy, the same age Damian was when he first met his father, when he got to take a different path than the one laid out for him since birth.

He can...offer this boy a new path, too, he supposes. One doesn't need to be an assassin if they don't wish to be.

Jason and Damian share a look.

"What's one more stray?" Jason asks, smiling crookedly, and Damian knows they're on the same page.

* * *

Tim doesn't often go to the Manor.

Before seven weeks ago, it was because being around Bruce—with all the history, and that massive guilt complex—was difficult, and often not worth the effort. Especially when Damian and Jason were there, and all the others, because they played off each other and made everything _worse._

Not that Tim blames Jason for any of it. He's just a side effect, another cog in the broken system Bruce created. Damian, on the other hand, Tim doesn't mind putting some blame on. Not when Damian treated him like crap for a majority of the time they knew each other. So now that Tim isn't _really_ on Team Bat, he's happy to be an asshole right back.

Of course, starting seven weeks ago, there was a completely different reason to avoid the Manor.

Because no matter how much Tim wanted to scream at Bruce and shake him until he saw sense, no matter how much he resented the hypocrisy the man walked around cloaked in, he's his dad. Bruce is his dad, and his dad is gone. And going to the Manor, knowing he isn't there, knowing fucking _Damian_ is wearing the cowl—it feels _wrong._

Besides, Tim has other things to focus on right now. Like how Bruce definitely isn't dead, and he needs to find him, and no one else seems to think so, and Ra's al Ghul really is a pain in the ass. Damian didn't stand a chance, really; how do you become anything but an asshole when you have a dick for a grandfather and a dick for a father? Two bloodlines combined to make a Piece of Work.

But one does not ignore a summons from Alfred.

He doesn't bother knocking, just walks straight in, heading for the kitchen to grab something to eat before heading down to the batcave to see whatever problem is happening that called him here. Typically, food is necessary to handle this batshit family. Or booze. But he wouldn't get drunk under Alfred's roof. He wouldn't be able to stand the disappointment.

There are a couple people in the kitchen already, and he easily ignores the surprised silence that falls over them when he enters. He vaguely recognizes the redhead—Barbara, he thinks her name is; the brand new Batgirl. Steph's really proud of her, says she's brilliant and a natural badass, easily coming along in her training. Tim had resisted sharing how bullshit he found it that another kid had been pulled into this crusade. He hadn't wanted to start—another—fight with Steph, not when they'd _just_ started really getting along again.

His eyes land on the other person and he feels instantly guilty for not recognizing him immediately; Duke's his brother, after all, and one of the few people Tim has never had any beef with—it's hard to dislike Duke. He must be far more in his head than he thought, if there's a processing disconnect between seeing a face and recognizing the individual. He needs _sleep,_ really. He can't remember the last full night he got.

"Tim," Duke says. His tone is surprised but the smile on his face is genuine, pleased to see him. It makes Tim's heart clench, a reminder that just because he and Bruce have their issues, doesn't mean he should completely cut off the rest of his family. They'd started getting close again, after all. Post-death and resurrection and brief time as a crime lord, he means.

He and Duke went bowling. He and Cass went to the ballet. He even took Jason out to see a movie and get some ice cream. He was making an effort to stay in contact with Steph, and to talk to Kate every once in a while.

But then Bruce "died." And Tim...didn't have the effort to keep any of that up. They didn't believe him when he said Bruce wasn't dead. So what was the fucking point in hanging out? He'd find Bruce, prove he was right, and then things could...go back to normal. As normal as their lives ever got, at least.

"Hey," Tim greets, offering a tired smile in return. He's not hungry anymore, the thought of how much he still has to accomplish to get their dad back heavy in his mind and his stomach. "Good to see you, Duke." His eyes flick to the girl. _God,_ she's young. Is she even a teenager? How did the commissioner's daughter even get wrapped up in all of this, anyway? Did Steph tell him? He can't remember.

"You, too, man," Duke says, and sounds like he really means it. If Damian ever managed to get those words out (unlikely to never), it would've certainly sounded insincere or mocking. Tim has two big brothers, and he has no trouble saying which one is his favorite. "What's the occasion?" He tilts his head, smiling a little wryly. "You here about the newest addition?"

Tim pauses, blinks. Looks at the redhead again, who raises her chin proudly under his gaze, and then back to Duke. "I'm begging you to tell me _she_ is who you're talking about."

 _"She_ has been here for five months," Barbara tells him firmly, and yeah Tim can see why Steph likes her so much. She's bold, unafraid, even when faced with Tim and Tim's...reputation. "I'm not the newbie anymore."

"Since when is five months long enough to be considered out of probationary period?" Tim asks, mystified. Then adds, "Wait, no, I take it back. I was going out as Shrike after—what?—three months of actual training? _If_ that? How about you, Duke? Did Bruce wait five months before sending you out into the field?"

His brother levels him with a look that makes Tim grimace. Out of all of them, Duke has taken the best to Alfred's lessons of getting them all in line. "It wasn't like that," he says evenly, "and you know it."

Yeah, well, he doesn't really want to dwell on all that right now. None of them have had the easiest lives. He blames himself for bringing this garbage up.

"So there's a new addition?" Tim says, forcefully getting back on track. Jeez, Damian's been in Bruce's shoes for not even two months and he's already bringing in new people? Tim can't claim to be surprised, really; the man certainly inherited the habit of taking in strays—all of the pets in the Manor are definitely proof of that.

Duke nods. "He's a cute kid," he says. "Kinda quiet, but I'm pretty sure that's just because of the place Damian and Jason rescued him from. Jason thinks he'll be an outgoing kid once he moves past it, says his background is pretty extroverted. I like him. I think you will, too."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Where exactly did they _rescue_ him from?"

"The Court of Owls." It's Barbara who answers, looking at him with a challenge in her eyes. She and Steph must get along _great._ "He was a Talon."

Tim laughs at the joke. Neither Duke nor Barbara laugh with him. Tim stares. They stare back.

"No way," he says.

Duke offers him a grin. "She's not lyin', man."

"What the fuck are we doing with a Talon?" Tim asks incredulously. "Aren't we supposed to _kill_ the Talons? Wasn't that the whole goal the other night?"

Duke shrugs a shoulder. "Yeah, but he's a ten-year-old boy, so..."

Tim blinks. "They had a ten-year-old assassin?" he asks, mystified. Duke and Barbara both nod. Tim huffs a laugh. "How much do you think Damian is projecting?"

Duke rolls his eyes, but nods with mock thoughtfulness. "The thought has crossed our minds." He shakes his head with a chuckle. "They're down in the cave, if you want to meet him. Damian's running some tests to make sure the kid isn't gonna kill us in his sleep."

"And wouldn't that be a shame," Tim drawls, and heads out of the kitchen to go meet their newest addition.

* * *

Dick spent eight years of his life rarely spending a single moment in silence.

The past two, however—

Well. He's gotten used to being quiet. The masters didn't like his chatter or his comments or his questions. They discovered very early on that the circus brat in their care was not one for silence, and took measures accordingly. He spent three weeks with a muzzle on, only removed for designated mealtimes. And then any time he spoke out of turn after that was met with immediate violence. Usually just a slap, a backhand. Sometimes more.

He learned.

Dick misses it; casual conversations, idle interaction. He misses the hum of voices at the circus, and the trumpeting of the elephants, and the whistle of the train. He misses the lullaby his mama used to sing him, and the stories his papa used to tell. He misses Pop Haly's boisterous laugh. And most of all, Dick misses _Dick's_ voice, his laughter, his awful singing, his simple, simple _noise._

But all of that is unbecoming for a Talon. Talons are to be seen, not heard. And most of the time, not even to be seen.

The other Talons are gone now, though. He knows they're dead, killed by the Batman and his allies, even if they're avoiding mentioning anything like that. And the masters are gone, too. Not dead, but in jail or on the run. Not here, to hit Dick if he speaks without permission.

 _"You're Batman"_ are the first words other than _"_ _Yes, Master,"_ or _"No, Master,"_ or _"Thank you, Master,"_ that Dick has spoken in almost two years. His heart sped up saying them, ready for punishment, but—nothing. The masters are gone. It's just him and the new Batman and the Batman's allies now. It's up to them what happens to him now.

He doesn't know them well enough to know if they mean it when they say they aren't going to kill him. He's learned not to trust people, these past two years. Dick used to be such a trusting boy, seeing the best in everyone. He's not that anymore. He can't be. So he can't trust their word that he's going to survive this encounter, even as they take him from the maze, take him to their home base.

But—but the Bat is a symbol. It's an _important_ symbol, one Dick still believes in, still _longs_ to believe in. It's the symbol of a man who draped his cape around Dick's shoulders and told him everything would be alright, that they'd catch the man who took his parents from him.

This isn't that Batman. He knew it as soon as he saw him. But he wears the symbol on his chest and the cowl upon his head, which means he carries the responsibility. It's his job to uphold what the symbol stands for. And the Batman does not hurt the people he's promised to protect.

He stays silent in the car ride to the batcave, and silent as they sit him down, and silent as they move about, talking in hushed whispers or drawing a blood sample or testing his reflexes. Shrike is nice, keeping up a commentary, telling him some stories about the outside world, and it's— _good._ He's not expected to learn anything from the talk, he's not supposed to memorize and parrot back. He gets to just...listen, and enjoy the pointless chatter.

And the Batman—the new Batman, who carries so much of the old one with him—treats him like a real person, not like an object, and Dick doesn't remember the last time the people around him acted like he was a human being, same as them. He's a Talon, a weapon, the Court's blade. But Shrike talks and Batman asks his permission before touching him and an elderly man appears offering him snacks.

The man's name is Alfred, apparently, and he earns Dick's loyalty when he gives him apple juice and a chocolate chip cookie and wraps a heated blanket around his shoulders.

Other people make small appearances too. Batman's explanations are terse and short, and Dick knows there's something he must be missing about the man because each person who turns up makes a comment about Batman's childhood and a potential mirroring, and Batman's patience for the comments gets shorter and shorter with each individual, until he snaps at the blonde girl.

None of them seem overly bothered by the Batman's mood, though. Barely even bat an eye.

Dick likes the blonde girl, and the African-American man. They're so relaxed around him, so at ease with the situation, that it makes Dick want to relax in response. They introduce themselves as _Stephanie_ and _Duke,_ and Duke does a trick with the lights that is fantastic and Dick is _desperate_ to ask about, but questions mean punishments, and this might not be the Court but _what if—_

"You doin' okay in there?" Shrike asks, hopping up to sit next to Dick on the medical examination table. "Seem awful spacey."

"What happens next?" Dick asks, voice small. He clutches the blanket more tightly around himself, but Shrike doesn't chastise him for asking a question, of _course_ he doesn't, why _would_ he— "After Batman figures out if I'm a danger to you all. I'm—what then? I remember...I didn't like the orphanage."

Shrike looks at him, surprised. "Well, you're staying with us, squirt." Dick blinks. Shrike suddenly looks unsure. "I mean, if you _want_ to, that is. We can do whatever you want. The Wayne name goes far, has a lot of connections—the next step is completely up to you, Dickie."

His papa used to call him Dickie. His heart _aches_ with the desire to hear it again.

"I want to," Dick whispers. Talons are weapons, tools, they don't have wishes of their own. Then he cocks his head, because he knows that name. "Wayne? He was on the list."

Shrike laughs a little. "Damn, guess we haven't really introduced ourselves, huh? Slipped my mind completely." He reaches up, then, and peels off the domino mask covering his eyes. When he raises his head again, he offers Dick a grin. Dick smiles hesitantly back. "I'm Jason. The lug under the cowl is Damian. Damian Wayne. His—well, _our_ —dad was Bruce Wayne, the Batman you met."

The Court would've _loved_ to know that.

"I'm sorry he's dead," Dick says.

Shrike—no, _Jason_ —sighs, nodding. "Me too, squirt. Right now we're all just doing our best." He glances over to the large computer, where Batman is hunched over the keyboard, Stephanie standing next to him with a smirk on her face. Whatever she's saying, she's too far away for Dick to hear, but Batman doesn't seem to appreciate it.

"Hey, Blondie!" Jason calls and Stephanie looks over, raising an eyebrow, and then heads their way when Jason waves a hand at her.

"What's up?" she asks, and reaches out a hand to ruffle Dick's hair. He holds still under the touch, breath catching, but she doesn't hurt him. Because of _course_ she doesn't. This isn't the Court. Touch doesn't have to be painful.

It's...fond. Kind. Familiar. Everyone at the circus used to ruffle his hair.

"You mind doing me a favor?" Jason asks. "I don't want to leave him, but I think he should change out of this ridiculous getup—can you go up to my room and grab something that might fit him? Sweatpants, a t-shirt, whatever."

"Yeah," Stephanie agrees, eyeing Dick's weapon-lined Talon outfit. She begins to turn away, then pauses. "I should warn you, though. Alfred and Damian thought people should be aware of the changed status—good Talon is kind of new for us—so Alfred called the others. Including Tim. Apparently he's using this as an excuse to get Tim back here for a bit."

Jason's eyebrows shoot up, lips parting. Dick watches the interaction with curiosity. "Tim's still in Gotham? I figured he fucked off again after—" His eyes flick to Dick, "—the other night. He's...been pretty adamant about his mission of denial lately."

Stephanie's lips twist. "Tim's doing what he has to do." Her tone's an odd mix of defensive and sad. "He'll accept it eventually. He just needs to do this." She shakes her head. "Anyway, I just thought I would warn you that he's gonna show up."

"Tim and I don't really have a problem with each other," Jason says easily. "Well, after the kidnapping me bit, a while back. That wasn't fun. But his issue's never _actually_ been with me." He glances towards the computer, towards Batman.

"Don't I know it," Stephanie mutters with a snort. Jason cocks an eyebrow at her, a teasing smile beginning to tilt his lips. She frowns at him. "Oh, don't even start!"

"Start what?"

Dick looks over to the new presence in the cave, hands instinctively twitching towards his weapons, but makes himself relax when he doesn't see anyone else striking defensive positions. Not a threat.

The man strolls casually over, sparing a glance for Stephanie and Jason before turning his attention to Dick. The bat design across his chest proclaims him an ally. The gun strapped to his thigh say enemy. Dick doesn't understand.

"Hey," the man greets, "you must be tiny assassin 2.0."

Jason snorts. Stephanie rolls her eyes.

"Try not to say that to Damian," Stephanie suggests. "I think he's getting tired of the reference, after each of us have made it." The man smiles slightly. Stephanie sighs. "Who am I kidding, that wouldn't be a deterrent for you." She shakes her head, and begins to head for the stairs. "I'm gonna go get him some real person clothes. Good to see you, Tim—been a _very_ long time."

The man— _Tim,_ apparently—cringes, staring after her.

"Trouble in paradise?" Jason drawls, smirking. Tim scowls at him.

"We're not—"

"Oh my god," Jason interrupts, rolling his eyes skyward. "I _really_ don't care about whatever the current status of your relationship is right now. I can never keep track of where you both are in the cycle, and I do not have the patience to figure it all out."

Tim's scowl deepens to a sneer. "Hi, Jason. How good to see you again. I've _so_ missed your snark."

"Find Bruce yet?" Jason asks casually. Dick freezes, eyes wide, and watches Tim fall still, eyes narrowed. Jason's keeps his unbothered posture, but he swallows. Dick doesn't like any of this.

With what looks like great difficulty, Tim pulls his angry gaze away from Jason, turning something far calmer in Dick's direction. He's examined critically, and Dick pulls the blanket more tightly around himself. Tim's gaze softens.

"Hey," the man says gently. "Sorry about all this. I'm Tim; do I call you Talon, or do you have a name?"

"Dick," Dick says quietly. Tim's expression turns startled, offended, and the laugh that comes out of Jason makes Dick smile.

"It's his name," Jason confirms with a grin. "He's not calling you a dick. Though, I mean, I'm not saying I would exactly disagree."

Tim closes his eyes and seems to count to five before opening them. He doesn't even glance in Jason's direction, focus on Dick. All of them have such sharp gazes, such depth, that Dick has to fight not to fidget every time they look at him.

"It's nice to meet you, Dick," Tim says, and sound like he actually means it. Dick smiles hesitantly at him. "Mind if I ask how a literal child ended up as a Talon for the Court of Owls?"

Shockingly enough, no one has asked him that question yet. Dick wonders if it's one of those things they've been avoiding, like the fact that the other Talons are dead. _Dead_ dead, not the Court's version. Jason's certainly paying attention to the answer. Damian, by the computer, is pretending to not be aware of anything at all.

"My grandfather is— _was_ a Talon," Dick tells them quietly. His voice is getting better, but it's still a little scratchy, disuse making it rough. "Apparently it was my—destiny. So when my parents died, the Court came."

Both of the older boys are silent for a moment. Then Tim says, "Well that sounds awful." His blunt tone startles a huff of laughter out of Dick. There's a glimmer of a smile on Tim's face in response, and he looks at Jason. "Where's Cass? I feel this is the kind of thing Cass should handle."

Jason's eyebrows go up. "Because she, too, was _destined_ to be an assassin? Damian's the same. And she's still in Hong Kong, by the way."

Tim snorts. "They should form a club. Sidekicks-who-were-supposed-to-be-the-bad-guy."

Jason frowns, sitting up a little. "Hey, he's ten, no one said anything about being a sidekick."

This time it's Tim's eyebrows that go up. Dick watches the back and forth avidly. "You're kidding, right? Yeah, he's ten, but he spent a couple years training to be an _assassin._ And Damian just took him in, same way Bruce got all of us. You really think Dick has a single chance of living a normal life? More importantly, you think he _wants_ to? Stuff like that changes your perspective on quite a lot. Impossible to go back."

 _Oh,_ they're talking about _him._ About where he goes from here. And yeah, Dick has to admit that...he doesn't know what a normal life would be like. Even before the Court, Dick didn't live a _normal_ life. He doesn't know how, especially not now, after two years of training and hurting and becoming something else. He can't just...stop. He's never been one to stop moving. And especially not after something like this.

Tim said _sidekick._ As in _hero._

Dick's heart beats a little faster. Could he do that? Could he use the training meant to make him a killer and use it to help people instead?

The night Dick's parents died, Batman promised they'd find the man who killed them. Tony Zucco was caught, but there's so many bad people still out there. And...and so many masters who escaped justice.

Dick thinks he'd like to be the one to catch his former masters. Yes, he thinks he likes that idea quite a bit.

"Jesus, Tim, aren't _you_ the one saying we need to stop training _children_ to fight this battle?"

"He's already trained," Tim says with a huff. "And I'm not saying you _should_ take him on. Fuck, maybe for once one of us will just get _therapy_ to handle trauma instead of putting on a costume and beating people up. I'm saying that knowing the odds, this kid'll be in tights by the year's end."

"If my opinion matters," Dick says quietly, watching the pair of them with wary eyes, biting his lip, "I don't think I can do normal after everything I've experienced."

Tim looks at Jason, gesturing triumphantly at Dick. Jason just gives Dick a helpless look.

"You don't even want to _try_ to move past this?" he asks, maybe a bit desperately. "Go to school, make friends, put all of this bullshit behind you?"

Dick frowns at him. "Some of my masters escaped," he says, and ignores the way neither of the boys seem to like the term _masters._ "I can't just sit on the sidelines and twiddle my thumbs while they're out there." He pauses, gaze searching, and then holds a challenge in his voice when he says, "Could you?"

Jason purses his lips. Shakes his head. Is saved from verbally responding by Batman's approach.

"Timothy," Batman greets, just a tad stilted, inclining his head. "It's been a while since you've dained to enter the batcave."

"Hasn't felt much like the batcave lately," Tim replies, voice casual. "You know, without the _actual_ Bat." Batman tenses, hands balling into fists at his sides.

"This fight feels dumb," Dick announces, and then cringes back as three sharp gazes swing to him. Stupid, speaking out of turn, insulting them—

But Jason laughs and slings an arm around Dick's shoulders, grinning brightly. It's infectious, and Dick finds himself smiling. Once Tim is done gaping at him, he gives a crooked smile too.

"Yeah, you'll be a _great_ addition," he tells him, winking. "Anyone who gets Damian to shut up with just a few words is okay in my book."

Batman sighs, irritated and put-upon, and finally pulls the cowl off his head, revealing Damian Wayne for the first time. He looks tired. Exhausted, really. Dick resolves to make sure Damian gets a full night's sleep soon. In fact, they all look like they could use it.

"Dickie here is saying he wants to hunt down the rest of the Court," Jason tells Damian, squeezing his arm around the boy's shoulders. He shares a quick glance with Tim. "And I figure we've got to let him, don't we?"

Damian rolls his eyes skyward, pulling in and letting out a deep breath. Eventually he looks at Dick, something appraising in his gaze.

"You want to be a hero?" he asks, something of a challenge in his voice.

And Dick's really never been one to back down from a challenge, especially not from someone who so obviously needs him to say _yes._

"I need to do this," Dick says firmly.

Tim smiles wryly, shaking his head. "Kid fits right in, don't you think?"

Damian hums. "We'll need to find you a name, I suppose. A costume. And of course examine your abilities, see what there is to work on, what to adjust." A momentary pause. "I...understand what it is like to go from a background of training to kill, to a life where killing is...the opposite of the goal. I can help you."

Dick smiles at him. A memory of his mother pops into his head, pointing out the beautiful birds in the trees in spring, the nickname that fit and stuck.

"I think I have a name in mind," he tells his new family, and leans into the protective arm around his shoulders, something warm growing in his gut.

**Author's Note:**

> We've passed the halfway point of Batfam Week my dudes!


End file.
